


Hooded

by sherlockian4evr



Series: My Dark Muse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anal Stimulation, Anal Vibrator, Angst, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bondage Hood, Bottom!Sherlock, Brothers Plotting Together, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dark, Dubious Consent, Fear as a Gift, Forced Orgasm, Handcuffs, Helpless!Sherlock, M/M, Male Milking Machine, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overstimulation, Past Drug Use, Poe - Freeform, Questioned Death Wish, Self Imprisonment, Sexual Torture, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships, bottom!John, dark!john, leash, non-con, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tied up and connected to a cock milking machine, exhausted with half pain and half pleasure. How would he look if he experienced that for over an hour? And why is he there? Who did that to him? And what happens next?</p>
<p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm going to hell for this...

Sherlock woke, groggy and unable to move. He blinked his eyes open to a smothering darkness behind a hood made of leather. The leather's tang was sharp in his nostrils, acrid and thick in its richness. There were small sounds as of someone shuffling around, moving instruments of some sort on a hard surface. He licked his lips, his tongue abraded by the rough texture of a zipper against his lips. Sherlock tried moving again with limited success. His legs were spread wide, there were cuffs at his wrists, ankles and knees and he could feel large bands across his bare abdomen and chest. He suddenly realised that he was naked.

Not good.

"Who's there," Sherlock rasped, his mouth dry and muzzy-feeling.

For a long moment, there was no response, then there was the sound of typing.

A warm, female voice spoke into the air, "You're safe." The voice was slightly disjointed. Whoever was holding him wasn't talking but was using some sort of read aloud program with a synthesised voice to communicate.

Sherlock barked a bitter laugh. "Safe!" He fought the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. Being abducted was nothing new, but the complete restriction of movement combined with the leather mask was getting to him. His nudity wasn't helping. His breathing hitched then he gasped. His pulse shot up and he couldn't catch his breath.

There was more typing then the same female voice sounded, "Calm down. I said you were safe. You'll hyperventilate."

Warm hands stroked his chest in soothing circles as he fought to reign in his breathing. For one brief moment, his head swam. Passing out wouldn't help him. He was fairly certain that his abductor would just wait until he regained consciousness to start whatever was planned. It seemed to take forever, but he was finally able to even out his breathing.

Typing, then that voice. "Good. Try to stay calm and this will be easier for you. Remember, you're safe."

For long minutes, the faceless hands stroked him. They were almost tender in their caresses as they explored his body. When they caressed his bollocks, Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. "Why?"

Typing. "Because you need this... and because I want to."

"Please don't. I can't identify you. You've been very clever." Sherlock knew it was hopeless, but he had to try.

Typing. "Maybe you don't know who I am. Maybe you do. I know you and I can't count on you not deducing my identity. I'm already committed, so I plan to enjoy this."

The hands reappeared, this time slick with lube and swiping over Sherlock's hole. His abductor didn’t rush, but relentlessly opened him to his probing fingers. Sherlock trembled at the intrusion then gasped when his prostate was suddenly stimulated. He actually saw stars in the hooded darkness. The fingers pulled away only to be replaced by something hard pressing inexorably inward. It stretched him even wider and when the object was fully seated, there was a clicking sound followed by vibration.

"Oh, fuck!" Sherlock's hips tried to buck up, but he was held in place by the strap across his abdomen. He didn't have time to adjust to the sensation before there was a warm hand grasping his hardening length. "Please. It's too much." The stimulation to his prostate was new and already overwhelming. He didn't think he could take more. He didn't want it. The hand stroked him twice then let him go. Abruptly, Sherlock realised that he did want it. He needed release. He groaned in confusion, "Please."

Typing. "Please what?"

Sherlock shook his head and spoke brokenly, "I don't know. Less. More. Please! I don't know."

The hand was back on him, now and he could feel his cock being guided into... something. He registered the feel of latex as it sheathed him and there was a slickness to it as if whatever it was had been filled with lube. A hard rim settled against the base of his cock then there was a click and the sound of a pump. Every muscle in Sherlock's body seized as a sucking sensation engulfed his length. He could feel something pulsing around him, milking him, from the bottom of his cock to the tip.

Sherlock was making the most obscene sounds as he struggled in his bonds. He writhed and wriggled, unheeding of the bruising that was inevitable. In less than two minutes, his body went rigid and he came. The warm hands were stroking his arms, his chest and from time to time, fingers intruded into his gasping mouth. Sherlock was milked completely dry and he was overly sensitive. The pulsing of the vibrator was too much against his prostate and his cock felt... God, it ached. He moaned.

"Stop. Please. God." Sherlock's muscles were locked, straining against his restraints.

Lips pressed to his through the hood and a tongue invaded his mouth. Sherlock huffed air through his nose, barely able to get enough oxygen. He fought against the overstimulation for a while, then he went lax under the onslaught. Sherlock was too tired to resist, almost feverish. He gave a full body spasm, needing to come but unable. This went on for a seeming eternity of commingled pleasure and pain until his muscles were too exhausted to clench. He was babbling, pleading and crying, wanting it to end.

Suddenly, the machine went silent, its switch flipped to off. The switch on the vibrator was likewise flipped. He went lax and sobbed, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," in an endless litany.

Typing. "Good boy. You did wonderfully. You're so good."

There were hands soothing him, stroking him, and he hungered for them. They anchored him, gave him something on which to focus. The hands were removed then returned to his arm. There was the pinch of a needle then the relief of oblivion.

The next thing that Sherlock knew was the too bright light of the flat, fingers at his neck and John's concerned voice.

"Sherlock. Talk to me. Come on, wake up." John sounded panicked. "Come on. That's it," he soothed, seeing awareness retuning to Sherlock's eyes. He helped him sit up, supporting him with one arm. "Are you okay?"

What was the answer to that? Sherlock grabbed onto John and didn’t let go, not for hours.

One week and two cases later, Sherlock had still not told John what had happened. Nor had he figured out who his abductor had been. He stood looking out the living room window on the people passing below. It was confusing, the feelings that Sherlock was experiencing. He kept dreaming of what had happened and waking oddly aroused. It was disgusting, hateful.

John typed away at his blog in his plodding fashion.

He typed.

John typed.

His abductor had typed deliberately and slowly.

Sherlock walked over and stood by the doctor who paused and looked up.

"Yes?" John asked, his face calm and bland as ever.

Sherlock leaned over and sniffed. John went very, very still under the detective's regard. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. It was strong and callused like his abductor's. Their eyes locked and he _knew_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for the subject of suicide.

Sherlock straddled John’s lap, his knees resting on either side of the doctor’s hips. He raised his left hand and cupped the back of John’s head tightly. The detective wrapped the long fingers of his other hand around John’s neck, just tight enough to communicate a threat. John didn’t move, didn’t struggle and didn’t look away from Sherlock’s eyes. There wasn’t fear in those blue eyes, but sadness, an unbearable grief.

“Why?” the detective asked, not expecting an answer. “What did you hope to accomplish? Are you expecting me to beat you? Maim you, perhaps? Kill you? Is that what it was? A complicated way of committing suicide?” He squeezed just a bit tighter. He had to know. “Is that what you want, John? Shall I keep on squeezing until there’s no breath left in your body?”

The doctor’s nostrils flared and his eyes fell shut. He managed to shake his head despite Sherlock’s tight grip. The detective relaxed his hold, marginally. “Then why?!” When he didn’t get a response, he shouted, “Why?!”

“I  _had_  to. The nightmares… I had to make them stop.” John’s voice broke and Sherlock could feel his muscles tremble.

“Explain,” he ordered.

“The dreams were never about Afghanistan. I’ve been having them for years. Different people. Different places. Horrid, sick dreams.” He tried to turn his head away to no avail.

Sherlock could feel the doctor’s throat convulse as he swallowed.

“I was always able to ignore them, shove them down and forget about them in the daylight, until I met you.” Tears welled in his eyes. “But you… God, Sherlock. You’re so beautiful and amazing and so bloody strong. Why did you have to be so strong?” His voice rasped. “From that very first case, I knew that you could take anything I might do to you. You wouldn’t break. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. All the things I want to do to you.” Now, his voice grew hard, filled with determination. “You should call Mycroft. Let him fix everything, make me go away. You don’t have to do it yourself.” The doctor closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to do it yourself.” He waited for what Sherlock would say next.

“Look at me,” the detective ordered. When John opened his eyes, Sherlock continued. “I own you, now, body, mind and soul. That’s the price for what you did to me. You will not flee nor will you try to kill yourself out of some misguided sense of guilt. You will continue to live under this roof. Nothing will change, except that now you. Are. Mine.”

“No,” John replied. “It’s too dangerous. The nightmares started again two nights ago. You heard me, I know, because you played your violin. They won’t stop and eventually I’ll try to act on them. I won’t be able to stop myself.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I succeed? What if I go too far and you pay the price? What if…” Now his tone turned pleading, “Please, Sherlock. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“If you had cancer, I wouldn’t kill you for it. That would be ridiculous. You’re sick, John. It’s an illness of the mind, but that’s just what it is. A mental illness. An instability. I won’t take your life for that.” He was still holding the doctor’s neck tightly.

“An instability,” John repeated, his voice cracking on his own disbelief. “I’m fucking insane, Sherlock! Don’t you remember what I did to you? You have absolutely no idea. I want to carve my initials into your chest. I want to hear you beg me to stop. I want to hurt you and make you cry while I shove my cock into you and lick away the blood from your chest. What makes me any different from every other sexual predator that we’ve put away? Nothing, that’s what.”

“You’re wrong, John. Your protests attest to that.” Sherlock stood and walked over to where his Belstaff hung on a hook and reached in. He withdrew a pair of handcuffs and returned to stand in front of John. “Besides, I’ll take precautions. Now, you are going to go lay down on my bed with your hands above your head so that I can cuff you to it whilst I think. Plans have to be made, contingencies put into place. I can’t do that if I’m worrying that you’ll try to flee or harm yourself.”

John stood, swayed slightly on his feet then did as he had been ordered. Sherlock cuffed his left hand then ran the cuffs through the headboard and back around to cuff the doctor’s other hand.

“If your shoulder bothers you too much, call me.” Sherlock withdrew from the room closing the door behind him. He leaned heavily against the wall and let out an explosive breath. Caring was not an advantage. Despite everything, the detective  _loved_  John. He had loved him for ages but had never acted on it. Now, everything had suddenly whirled into madness. The logical thing would be to do as John had suggested and call Mycroft, let him take care of everything. He swore under his breath. His brother would have to be involved for what he had planned. He would need Mycroft’s resources. He just had to ensure that his brother didn’t decide to take matters into his own hands and do away with John. That would be unacceptable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why? IDK. I just... IDK!
> 
> Trigger warning for the subject of suicide and past drug use.

Sherlock paced back and forth across the living room. He glanced at his mobile to check the time. Mycroft would be here any moment. Ah, yes. There was the sound of the street door opening and footfalls on the stairs. He forced himself to stillness and blanked his face.

As Mycroft entered the flat, he began to speak, "So, the day has come. John's decided to leave." That had seemed like the only explanation when he had received his brother's call and plea for help, saying only that it involved the doctor, but no, he could tell by Sherlock's stance that he had been wrong. He swore to himself. Mycroft hated being wrong. He observed his brother closely. "I see. What has he done that requires me to clean up after him?"

Sherlock clamped down on his thoughts and emotions. His had to acquire his brother's cooperation before making a not quite so full disclosure. "It's not important, not yet, but I need your unquestioning support."

Mycroft's blood ran cold then burned hot. His baby brother was trying too hard to keep the truth from him. It reminded him of Sherlock's time on drugs. The implications didn’t escape him. Danger was involved and whatever this was wasn't healthy. His brother hadn't corrected his assumption that he had been called in connection to John. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. John was the danger, but how? The doctor was overly protective of Sherlock, much the way the government official was. John would never harm his baby brother. Unless... Mycroft pictured the doctor's longing face when he looked at Sherlock. "Say no more, brother mine. I'll take care of his disposition."

Damn, the detective thought. He had been too heavy handed with his defences. Stupid. Of course Mycroft had figured out that John had sexually molested him. At least the details were still hidden from his brother's observational skills. There was nothing for it. He had been too cold. Now he had to drop his every defence and allow Mycroft to see his vulnerability, his need. "No. You have to promise me, Mycroft. You can't kill him. You can't have him killed. You can't take him away from me."

Mycroft resisted the urge to flinch. His brother sounded so raw and unlike himself. "So, you've admitted to yourself that you care," he commented. "Love is such a dangerous thing. I won't see you hurt. Your little goldfish has turned into a piranha. You can't keep him."

"I have to keep him, Mycroft. Look at me. What do you see?" the detective asked.

What Mycroft saw was his beloved baby brother, his pain and need revealed like it hadn't been since his last stint in rehab.

"You know where I would be if it weren't for John," Sherlock nudged.

Sherlock would be in a grave from an overdose. Mycroft didn’t have to say it, his brother knew that he understood, still... "I know, Sherlock, but that's no reason to let him hurt you."

"And if you take him from me…?" Sherlock asked.

His baby brother would be in that grave within the month. Mycroft turned his back on Sherlock, hiding the unusual play of emotion on his face. He turned back to his baby brother. "I will require something in return."

Sherlock's barriers came back up automatically. It was always like this with Mycroft. He waved a hand impatiently. "Yes. Yes. Of course. I'll take any cases that you send my way."

Mycroft abruptly broke, his own emotions plain for Sherlock to read. He stepped close, stopping only when they were toe to toe. "No. I don't care about that, about what you can do for me. What I need is for you to admit it, both to me and to yourself. Tell me that you know I care. Tell me that you understand I've only been trying to do what's best for you, to simply keep you alive. Because, baby brother, all I ever wanted was for you to be safe and happy." The sudden release of emotion that had been pent up for almost twenty years threatened to overwhelm the older man.

With a shaky voice, Sherlock ventured, "But you always said caring wasn't an advantage."

The elder Holmes barked a laugh. "Don't you see why? What has it ever earned me, caring about you? What is it getting you now?"

Sherlock felt raw and abused. He didn't need this, not now, not when he felt so exposed, but Mycroft's words scraped across his raw emotions. "I know, My," he said, using his nickname for his brother for the first time in years. "I know you care. I've known it for some time. I'm... sorry, but this, now. It can't be helped, not now."

Composure restored through an act of supreme will, the elder Holmes replied, “Thank you.” He looked away then abruptly changed topics. “I’ll have to talk to him, of course, before I can make any promises.”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed and motioned through the kitchen to his room down the hallway. Mycroft had already started in that direction. The detective shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew where John was being kept. He settled onto his chair and pulled his knees to his chest to wait.

Opening the door to his brother’s room, the government official stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and regarded John who was staring stoically at the ceiling. “John,” he ventured.

The doctor rolled his head to the side and looked at Mycroft. “He told you, then,” he stated simply then closed his eyes. “Don’t listen to him, Mycroft. We all know I’m a danger. Unpredictable. A rabid thing. Take care of him. Do what you do so well. Keep him safe.” The last was said pleadingly.

Mycroft gave a curt nod to himself. He didn’t need to see more to understand. Sherlock had been correct. John was still… John, at least on some level. The rest was a nasty business to be sure. Whatever the doctor had done to his brother couldn’t be excused, but Sherlock needed the broken-seeming figure on the bed. The government official would give his brother what he needed. He always had. He always would. He left the room without uttering another word.

Back in the living room, he said, “I agree to your requests, Sherlock. What do you have in mind?”

Sherlock unfurled himself and sat forward. “I need a method of tracking him, in case he bolts and decides to hurt himself. I need a method of securing him here, when it gets to be too much for him to control. And…” he hesitated. This was the tricky bit. “I need you to act as my safety net when the time comes.”

Once again, Mycroft’s blood ran that chilling combination of cold and hot as he deduced his brother's intent. “You’re going to let him do it to you, whatever it is he’s obsessing about.”

“Obviously. After his last… release, he was free of the dreams for five days. Two nights ago they began again. It stands to reason that allowing him to carry out his dreams will once again alleviate his obsession, at least for a time.” He looked frankly at his brother. “With you there to keep things from getting out of hand, I should be able to indulge him as often as needed to keep him functioning properly. The rest of the time, it will be just like before. Sherlock and John.”

Mycroft sighed. Making deals with the devil was nothing new to him. What was one more dubious agreement with the mythological creature? “Okay, baby brother. I’ll do what has to be done. I assume you have something in mind.”

Sherlock brought out the list he had made while waiting for his brother’s arrival and handed it across to him. “I believe this should do to be getting on with, brother dear.”

The government official’s eyebrows shot up as he began to read. Thorough. Very thorough indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

John was alone in the flat, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful. His skin felt too tight with need and the building compulsion that he felt was reaching its maximum crescendo. If Sherlock had been here, well... The doctor fingered the metal collar he wore. With the press of a button, the collar would send electricity through his system, effectively neutralising him as a threat. He had been tased, once, during the course of his military training and hoped to avoid a repeat of the sensation.

John briefly considered fleeing the flat, never to return, but that had been rendered pointless by Mycroft. Being the British Government, he had shown up with something he called a nanotracker. It had been a vial of purplish liquid that he had injected into the doctor's veins. With its rapid dispersal through his system, it would be impossible to remove and it was self-replicating to maintain its concentration. If John stepped one foot out of the flat, both Sherlock and Mycroft would know.

Sherlock. God, Sherlock. Pale skin. Pink lips. Take him apart. Taste him. Iron on his tongue. Make him beg.

John darted up the stairs to his room and pulled the newly reinforced door shut behind him. He slammed his fist against the button and heard the lock engage. That was it. He was a prisoner in his own room of his own free will. He wouldn't be going anywhere until the door was opened from the outside.

Leaning heavily against the wall, his forehead pressed to the harsh wallpaper, he panted heavily. His left hand shook, the tremors spreading throughout his body until his legs gave way and he slid to the floor.

* * *

Across London, in Mycroft's private room at the Diogenes, a very particular alarm sounded on his mobile. John had activated the lockdown. Grimly, he silenced the alarm then called Anthea and had his schedule cleared for the next forty-eight hours. He doubted he would need that long, but this first time, it would be better to provide a margin for error. Mycroft stood and left for Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock stood abruptly, walking away from the corpse and reaching into his pocket to silence his mobile alarm. John needed him. The corpse could wait.

"Sherlock!" Greg was following the swiftly moving detective. "You can't just walk off."

"You'll find I can," he retorted. Then, thinking better of it, he turned and ran down the facts rapidly, "The husband is delusional, complains constantly about a black cat, the cat he claims he walled up in the basement a week ago which just happens to coincide with the wife's disappearance. It wasn't the cat he walled up in the basement, but the wife. Have your team look for the body there." With that, he left and caught a cab for Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and bounded into the flat. For now, he was keeping a tight rein on his anxiety and would do until it became necessary to free it for John's sake. He didn't even pause at the sight of Mycroft standing in the middle of the living room, just headed straight through to his bedroom, assuming his brother would follow.  
Carefully not thinking about what was to come, the detective began undressing.

"This is your last chance to change your mind, baby brother. Are you certain this is the best course of action?" Mycroft's tone was neutral.

Sherlock slipped the last of his clothes off and placed them, folded, on his dresser. "The best course of action? Perhaps not, but it is the only acceptable one." He sat on the edge of his bed and let his eyes close briefly. Mycroft waited patiently as his brother took the time to center himself with a few calming breathes. Sherlock opened his eyes and gave a nod. He was ready.

* * *

John scrambled back into the far corner of his room when he heard the lock being thrown on his door. It was so hard not to lurch forward and attack the tall figure as it first appeared. When he saw that it was Mycroft, he sagged with relief. The drive to find Sherlock was still there, but it was tempered somewhat by the government official's presence.

"What now, Mycroft? Sherlock didn't exactly tell me the plan." John sounded stretched thin and oh so hopeless. The elder Holmes brother moved towards him with deliberation. John didn’t take his eyes off of him for a moment. Mycroft reached into his pocket and the doctor stiffened. "Are you going to drug me?"

"No, John." The government official pulled out a leash which he clipped to a hook on John's collar. He gave it a tug experimentally. "To help ensure your cooperation. Come along, John."

The doctor followed Mycroft from the room, feeling awkward, but also feeling that he deserved whatever might come next. He vowed he wouldn't fight it, whatever it was. He would face it with grace and dignity. That lasted until he realised that he was being led to Sherlock's room. He balked in the short hallway, his hands balled into fists and his breathing suddenly laboured once again. "Mycroft," he growled, "What are you playing at?" If Sherlock was in that room... He couldn't take that. He would snap. He would... He surged forward, wanting to hurt him, to have him. Sherlock!

Mycroft maintained a firm grip on John's leash and pulled him up short. He slammed the smaller man against the wall, pinning him there. He was pressing a blade to the doctor's ribs with enough pressure to capture his fevered attention. "Listen well, Doctor Watson. My brother is waiting for you. He is willing to give you what you need." He applied more pressure with the blade. "If you go too far, I won't activate the collar. I'll take more permanent action." He looked deeply into the doctor's eyes and saw understanding. He eased back, pushed the door to Sherlock's room open and gestured for him to enter.

John's eyes raked over Sherlock's naked form and he moaned. This time... This time he wanted to take Sherlock, but not until he made him bleed. His tongue darted out. He could almost taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. His eyes slipped to the side and landed on the bedside table. There was a sealed scalpel, antiseptic and bandages. There were also a number of cuffs, ropes and other restraints and toys. This would be so satisfying. He would make Sherlock scream. John turned to Mycroft who stepped forward and removed his leash.

Picking up a pair of leather cuffs, John placed his hand in the centre of Sherlock's chest and shoved. The detective let himself fall over backwards without resisting. There would be time for that once he had been restrained. He doubted he'd be able to help himself. He didn't try to hide his mounting trepidation, either. In fact, he was edging towards a kind of true fear and he gave it all up to John as an offering.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tagged bloodplay, but I don't think "play" is really accurate. This is dub-con, at best, and goes to dark places. Please be warned: this may be dubiously consensual, but it's not safe or sane.

John scrambled onto Sherlock, grabbing his wrists and pulling them up and over his head. He hovered over him, drinking in the sight of his flatmate lying beneath him. Bending lower, he breathed in the detective's scent then licked a stripe along his jawline, ending just below Sherlock's ear. "Don't move," he growled then released the detective's wrists.

Sherlock held very still, rolling his eyes to catch a glimpse of Mycroft. His brother looked grim, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, not casually, but like a viper, coiled and ready to strike. The detective blocked Mycroft's presence from his mind, returning his attention to John.

The doctor returned to the bed, leather cuffs in hand and set about securing Sherlock's wrists. He tightened each cuff snuggly, sliding one finger beneath the leather to check that he wasn't cutting off the detective's circulation. It seemed a strange thing for him to do, considering the dark fantasies he had confessed to Sherlock, but there was still something of the doctor lurking beneath the predator. The detective shuddered, hoping there was still something of the friend there as well.

Shifting to the side, John manhandled Sherlock so his head was towards the top of the bed. His eyes were gleaming as he yanked the detective's left arm up and to the side, clipping it to a conveniently placed eyehook. He did the same with Sherlock's other arm, pulling it in the other direction. The detective found that his breaths were coming hard. He berated himself for it. This wasn't the first time he had faced danger, and this was indeed danger, but John would be holding a scapel in his hand soon, using it on him, and even Mycroft might not be able to move fast enough to save him if the predator took complete control. He fought the sudden urge to kick out and sighed with relief when the doctor wrapped a cuff around his left ankle. Sherlock just had to hold out a few moments more. As soon as his legs were secured, he would let himself fight. When the time came, he would scream (Mycroft had had the room soundproofed). Sherlock would give John every little bit of himself, even that part he would normally keep hidden: his raw fear.

John came and stood by the side of the bed, watching as Sherlock began struggling. His detective, his friend, little pet was pulling so hard against the restraints that there would be bruising. Delightful. He let Sherlock continue to struggle as he began to undress. Every so often, John's fingers would stutter to a stop as he became entranced by the detective's expression. Finally, he was standing there, naked and oh so hard. He crawled onto the bed and pressed down on Sherlock's sternum, trying to gain his attention. When he had it, he slapped him hard. Sherlock met John's eyes, defiant despite himself, and growled wordlessly.

John grabbed his chin with bruising fingers and leaned down close. "That's enough of that. When I cut you, you don't want to be flailing about."

Sherlock wrenched his head away. "I'm not an idiot."

"No, I suppose not." John reached around and grabbed the bottle of antiseptic. He poured a handful into his right hand and slathered it between his fingers, coating his hands, and up his arms. Next he retrieved an alcohol wipe and opened it. He carefully cleaned Sherlock's chest, paying particular attention to the area over his left nipple.

The detective let his eyes fall shut as John traced a figure, over and over, on his chest with his finger. The contact was lost and Sherlock listened, hearing the sound of the sterile scalpel being opened. He waited, expecting to feel John's weight on the bed, but it didn't come. Instead, he heard his brother speaking very low.

As soon as John had retrieved the scalpel, Mycroft had moved. The doctor was oblivious to his motion. He let the doctor open the scalpel, then brought his own knife up to John's throat, just above the metal collar, and pressed it against his carotid artery. "We'll move together, John, very slowly. Remember what I said. Be very careful."

The doctor, predator, twidled the scalpel in his fingers, thinking. He could stab Mycroft right here and now. He was an interfering bastard at the best of times. This was worse. He was spoiling John's game. Of course, the government official would slice his throat quite neatly before he died. It wasn't worth it. "Fine," he snapped, "then move."

They moved like it had been choreographed, sliding onto the bed and up next to Sherlock. John leaned over Sherlock, ignoring the knife at his throat. The pale patch of flesh just over the detective's left nipple beckoned. The doctor made a slow cut, not deep enough to be a true incision, but definitely deep enough to bring blood welling to the surface. It was lovely, rich and deep in colour: crimson against white, and the sound Sherlock had made, a low hiss, a sharp intake of breath, it made John's cock twitch. He wanted to taste it, but not yet. "Tell me what it feels like when I cut you," the doctor ordered.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, jaw clenched tightly. When the next curving cut began, he forced himself to analyse it. "There's nothing at first, just a pressure as the scalpel slices." He hissed. "Then a sharp burn. It flares outward. Throbs." Sherlock squeezed his eyes tighter shut against the feeling of helplessness. "Then it settles in, insistent."

That's what John wanted to hear. "Oh, you're a good boy," he crooned then bent down and sucked on the curved cut, the base of a J. He bit.

Sherlock let himself scream, offering up more feedback to his predatory flatmate.

Mycroft flinched. This was nothing, he reminded himself. He had seen much worse, done much worse, all in the name of Queen and Country. Just because it was his baby brother receiving such treatment, was no reason to be squeamish. Besides, Sherlock had consented to this and no real damage was being done. He held the knife steady at John's throat.

Sitting back up, the doctor considered his work. Just four more slices. He would take his time. He straddled Sherlock, taking Mycroft with him, and leaned forward, resting on his right arm. "You can hush, now." He grinned and looked at the detective's face. "Well, no more talking, anyway. I like the other sounds you make."

Pressure, slice, burn. Pressure, slice, burn. Four times, four sharp intakes of breath, four groans. Sherlock's muscles were locked tight to keep from moving. If he jerked, the scalpel would slice too deeply, perhaps slip between his ribs.

John regarded the crimson W and the trails of blood running from it down Sherlock's side. He ran his finger through the blood, smearing it. His fingers flexed on the scalpel and his stomach heaved as he suddenly pictured himself slicing open his friend's belly. His knuckles went white around the scalpel. He slowly extended his arm to the side and forced his hand open, dropping the scalpel onto the bed linens. John didn’t even notice Mycroft retrieved the scalpel and retreat to the far corner of the room. He was too busy regrouping and thinking of his next actions for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to go write some fluff. Beta reader's orders!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I had better change this to explicit just because the whole fic is rather intense. Be aware, there is dub-con sex in this chapter.

He's going to fuck Sherlock now. That's what John decides. It's not going to be slow and gentle, no. He's going to fuck him hard and fast. This is something he'd wanted, even that first night at Angelo's, but the detective had shut him down. Maybe that's why John's dreams had turned to Sherlock, why his obsession had grown. He ran his hands along pale thighs, down towards the detective's ankles. For what he had in mind, Sherlock's legs needed to be free.

"Can you behave for me, be my good boy?" John asked, his left hand resting on the cuff at Sherlock's ankle.

Lifting his head, ingoring the pain at his chest, the detective glared. "Do I have a choice?"

John hummed, tunelessly. "Not what I was asking." He fiddled with the buckle on the cuff. "You fought me rather hard, earlier, flailed about." He tutted. "You could have got hurt."

Sherlock bit back the 'idiot' that threatened to spill from his lips. Of course he had fought. John needed him to resist him, so he had. If there had been a touch of last minute panic to his actions, well, all the better. It made it more believable. A hard slap against his leg made him growl reflexively, but he calmed himself, saying, "I won't fight you, John."

The doctor crawled up him, over his thighs and up his torso. He pressed his thumb into the crossing cuts at the W's centre peak. "Still. Not. What I. Wanted," he ground out

Biting the inside of his cheek in an effort not to cry out, Sherlock moaned. He was giving John everything else he needed. He could give him this. "I'll be your good boy, John." The pressure increased where John's thumb pressed. "I will. I promise."

Seemingly satisfied by that, John moved back down the bed. He unbuckled both of Sherlock's ankles and walked to the bedside table. There he fetched the lube. He glanced over the other toys, considering. He would use them another time, if there was another time. Right now, it was just him and Sherlock. Mycroft could sod off. Who cared about him anyway?

The doctor climbed on the bed, shifting the dectective's legs up and apart so that Sherlock's knees were bent and he was fully exposed. John grabbed a pillow, tapped Sherlock's hips and ordered, "Up." The detective lifted up and John positioned the pillow under him. "You're really very lovely, you know," the doctor observed as he flicked open the lube and slicked his fingers. "I didn't believe it, you know, that you were a virgin, not until I took you, saw how tight you were as I was putting the vibrator into you hole. You're so bloody gorgeous and the way you move. It's like you're sex personified. I figured you had experimented while you were using or maybe traded favours for drugs." He tested Sherlock's entrance. It was still so tight. "You need to relax for me. It will make this easier."

Just how was he supposed to do that, Sherlock wondered? Less than one month ago, he had yearned for this. Well, without the restraints, the pain or the low current of fear coursing through him. The detective let his head roll over and looked at Mycroft. He appeared as cool and dangerous as ever. He squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock had certainly never wanted his brother to witness what was about to happen. He felt the press of John's finger against his entrance, more insistent and pushing… Oh! It felt strange, invasive. The doctor added another finger and scissored them apart. Sherlock gasped and locked his knees to keep from trying to move away. This was more of a stretch and burn.

John paused, feeling Sherlock clinch involuntary around his fingers and he allowed himself to enjoy the fluttering of the detective's inner walls. The sound Sherlock had made was delicious. He wanted to hear more. In one swift motion, he stretched his fingers wide and inserted a third finger. This was rewarded by Sherlock's half bitten off 'fuck'. The doctor laughed.

The detective wanted to pull away. He knew enough to be aware that John was working far too fast. His chest hurt, his arse hurt and things wouldn't improve, he was fairly certain. When the doctor's fingers withdrew, Sherlock groaned with dread, knowing what was coming next and without enough preparation. John heaved the detective's legs up and over his shoulder.

"God, how I've wanted this," John said as he lined himself up with the detective's entrance. His predatory smile crept back onto his face as he thrust in fully.

Sherlock cried out, his hips jerking up and pain shooting through him. Forget burning, this was a sharp pain that stole his breath and crawled along his spine. He breathed through it as best he could with John pounding into him. The detective wondered if there was blood.

Mycroft's jaw was clenched tightly. If his brother gave the word, he would stop everything, throw John up against the wall. He'd be sure to give him several bruises while he was at it. None of this showed on his placid face, but he had his fists balled tightly and his arms crossed.

Letting his head fall back, John revelled in the sensations. Sherlock's near-virgin hole welcomed him, warm and clenched tight. This was heaven. This was paradise. He shifted his position and used his hands to tilt Sherlock's pelvis just so.

The detective cried out as John's cock found his prostate. His head twisted from side to side. It was too much, just as the vibrator had been when John had abducted him. He felt like he was going to implode. Sparks of light danced in front of his eyes.

"You. Are. So. Fucking sentitive," John grunted out between thrusts. "I can feel you, Sherlock. Each time I hit you there, you clench up for me, squeeze so tight. Yeah, just like that."

Something had to happen. Sherlock couldn't go on this way. His fingers groped, found the chains attached to his cuffs and held on, his knuckles turning white. "John," he gasped. "Please, John. Too much." The doctor pounded into him again and Sherlock grunted as more sparks flew behind his eyelids.

"I won't stop, not until you've come," John told him. "Do you want to come?"

That was a ridiculous question. Sherlock thought it was either come or die. His heart would stop if he didn't. "Pleeaaasssse," he hissed, drawn out. "Fuck me, John. Make me come." There was an answering laugh and then a hand on his cock, stroking insistently.

"You're beautiful and you're going to come for me." Stroke. "Your arse will milk me." Stroke. "And it will feel so bloody good." Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

The detective keened his release, his ejaculate shooting over John's hand and spattering his belly and chest. The doctor's motions stuttered, his hips jerked, then he shot into Sherlock, calling his name like a lover. Both their bodies quivered and shook for long moments. Finally, John dropped the detective's legs from his shoulders and crawled up to collapse on him, absently licking at the commingled blood and sweat on Sherlock's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm off to write some fluff or humour!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you stick love in the middle of a story like this? I guess it takes a madman to love one.
> 
> As for trigger warnings, heed the tags. That is all.

Mycroft watched as John slid off of Sherlock and settled at his side. The doctor's hand rested on the centre of Sherlock's chest. It was fascinating, really, to watch sanity return to the doctor's eyes. He so obviously became more _John_ by the moment.

The doctor gave himself a little shake as he became aware once again of his surroundings. He had drifted away for a few minutes... after. Now, he felt the drying blood on his hand. He jerked it away from Sherlock and brought it to his face, feeling the residue there. John flung himself back off the bed, landing on the floor. He was completely unaware of Mycroft taking a step towards him.

"No," Sherlock hissed. "Give him a moment." 

The elder Holmes brother forced himself back and leaned against the wall, waiting and observing.

The memory of what he had done replayed in John's mind. It was sweet. It was nauseating. Oh, God, Sherlock! He bounded to his feet freezing halfway to the detective.

"I'm okay, John," the detective said in his most soothing tone.

The doctor laughed, sounding on the edge of hysteria. 

"Doctor," Mycroft barked.

John's head snapped up to look at the government official.

"Be the friend. Be the doctor that you are." Spoken so calmly and with command, Mycroft's words served to calm John and to focus him on the task at hand.

Right. The doctor climbed onto the bed, ignoring the feel of pale green eyes on him. The first order of business was to get the cuffs off of Sherlock's wrists. He leaned over him and unbuckled the leather cuff, first from the detective's right wrist, then from the left. When he saw the already darkening bruises encircling Sherlock's wrists, John let his eyes close briefly as a fresh flood of self recrimination passed through him.

Sherlock lifted a shaky hand to cup the doctor's cheek. "It's fine, John. It's over and I'm okay." John shook his head, his eyes still shut. "Yes," the detective insisted. "This is just transport, remember? None of this is permanent. I'll heal."

The doctor's eyes popped open. "You..." Words failed him. There were no words for something like this. He looked at the initials carved into Sherlock's chest and winced. The cuts needed cleaning. He leaned in closer, examining the wounds. At least he hadn't cut too deep. Stitches wouldn't be required, just a few butterfly closures here and there. As he moved to fetch the medical supplies, Sherlock nodded at his brother who returned the nod grimly and stepped from the room.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "Where's Mycroft going?"

"He will be waiting in the living room. He'll want to talk about this, no doubt. Dull." Sherlock watched as the doctor applied antiseptic to a square of gauze. "Everything that needs to be said has been." He hissed as John gently wiped the blood from his wounds. "Between he and I, anyway." The doctor's hand stilled. "John..." Sherlock waited until the other man had met his eyes. "Do you love me?" John laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, shouting, "John!"

"You're insane. You know that?" the doctor asked, gasping for breath.

"So I've been told."

John shook his head in disbelief. "After what I've done to you, you want to know if I love you. You've got my bloody initials carved into your chest! Literally, Sherlock. How can that be love?"

The detective regarded him with an intense gaze. "That wasn't you, John."

"Yes it was," the doctor countered. "It's not like I have a split personality. I remember everything. It may make me sick, now, but... I liked it, every moment of it."

"But I can see a difference when I look at you," Sherlock argued. "This, you, now. This is Doctor John Watson, my friend. So I ask, again, do you love me?"

John looked away, considering. "I think about you constantly, not just after the dreams start. This is different. I think about how to make you happy, make you smile. I want to be the reason you smile. And when someone hurts you, I want to make them hurt." He looked back at Sherlock. "Anyone," he growled.

"You promised not to injure yourself and you always keep your promises," the detective reminded him. 

"Yeah," John said shakily as he resumed his ministrations. "I know." He let out a great sigh. "That's the hell of it, you know. I think I do love you. If I didn't, I wouldn't give a damn." When he glanced up again, there were tears in his eyes.

Sherlock pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him, despite the pain to his chest. "I love you, too, John. Never forget that."

Some time later, the doctor pulled back. He wore a stoic expression, determined to get through this and patch Sherlock's wounds. He opened a butterfly closure. The detective's fingers closed around his wrist.

"No."

John's brows pulled down in confusion. "They will help minimize the scarring," he explained.

Sherlock shook his head. "Exactly. You may find it appalling right now," he gestured at the JW over his nipple, "but, later... Well, I'd rather not be forced to repeat the venture for lack of scarring."

The doctor looked horrified, but found he couldn't argue with Sherlock's logic. "Let me bandage the cuts, at least."

"After I get a shower," the detective agreed. He wrapped his fingers around the back of John's neck. Pulling him close, he dropped a kiss on the stunned doctor's sweaty forehead.

As Sherlock climbed from the bed and left for the loo, John couldn't help thinking that they were both more than a bit mad. He pulled on his clothes and braced himself to face Mycroft, but first, tea.

The doctor could feel the government official's eyes drilling into him as he filled the kettle and switched it on. They followed him as he retrieved three cups and the tea bags. They burned into the back of his neck. John gave the tea up as a bad job and switched the kettle off. He straightened his shoulders and turned to face the metaphorical firing squad.

"Now that you've seen it, me, should I expect a bullet between the eyes?" John asked, half hopefully, half with dread.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and recrossed the the other way. "No, Doctor. You are still far too valuable alive."

Shaking his head, John sat down in his chair. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Correction, there were three madmen in the flat. It suddenly struck him like a lorry, Sherlock loved him. The detective had let him carve his initials into his chest! What wouldn't he let him do to him? Fuck.

"I love him," John announced. "You do understand that?" He gave a jolt as he looked down and spotted his still bloody hands.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose precipitously. "You believe you do."

"No," he shouted, then calmed himself. He covered his face, aware of how demented he must look with Sherlock's blood drying there. "No. I do. That's why you have to get me out of here." If Mycroft wouldn't help him, he would find a more permanent solution.

"We've discussed this before. I'll not take you from 221B." Mycroft's face was placid, but John thought he saw a glimmer of something there.

"Then I'll come to you," John announced scrubbing at his face, trying to wipe the blood away.

The government official gave him a hard look, taking everything in about the doctor. John's distress and intentions were clear. Mycroft reached into his pocket and withdrew the card that he had been carrying with him for days. He read the address on it, considering, then looked back at the doctor. Mycroft leaned forward and handed the card to John. "The next time he goes out and forgets his mobile, go to this address." Mycroft's gaze didn’t flinch. "Bring his mobile with you so he can't track you and, John, do turn it off."

John took the card, read the address and tucked it into his pocket. "What will I find there?" he asked, just as the shower turned off. He didn't really care so long as Sherlock would be safe.

"What you need," came the British Government's reply.


	8. Chapter 8

It took less time than expected for Sherlock to hare off on a case and forget his mobile. It took far longer than John would have liked. Still, the nightmares hadn't started yet, so all was well. Fine. Absolutely fine. He waited several minutes to make sure that the detective wouldn't return. Finally he snapped up the mobile and turned it off. He shrugged into his coat, zipping it up all the way to hide his collar and set out. Since his destination wasn't far, John decided to walk. For all he knew, this would be his last glimpse of the world.

John stared across the street at the innocuous looking door. He straightened his shoulders and made his way across the street. Hesitating, he decided not to knock and opened the door striding in. Immediately, he faced the barrels of three guns, all levelled at him. John, very wisely, chose not to move. He barely risked breathing.

"At ease, gentlemen," called out a female voice. "Welcome, Doctor Watson." A short blonde woman stepped into his line of sight. She reached for his right hand. "If I may?"

John let her take it then tried to jerk it back at the sharp sting. "The fuck!"

She gave him a small smile. "Just checking your DNA," she reassured him as she brought a device up and touched a strip to the small bead of blood.

"You could warn a bloke. You know, like people do." He couldn't help his sarcastic tone. The device pinged and the woman gave a nod. "It works that quick?" he asked. Why didn't every morgue have one?

The woman didn't answer, her smile didn’t crack nor did she offer a name. John didn’t ask for one. She started walking, beckoning for him to follow. They passed through two large, heavy doors that shut behind them with an ominous clang. After that, events moved very swiftly.

There were white walls, bright lights, poking, prodding, testing and scans, so many scans. None of the people working with, no, on him offered their names. It was all cold and impersonal. John felt like a specimen. He supposed he was.

That evening, John was shown to a starkly empty room. He was being wired for monitoring by a clinical young man. One older man walked in and placed some paper and a biro on the bedside table.

“Mr. Holmes suggested that you might want to write a letter,” he explained. “When you’re finished, just hit the call button and I’ll come fetch it and see that it’s delivered.”

That was the friendliest thing that had been said to him all day. “Yeah, thanks,” John said, letting his gratitude show in his voice. As soon as he was left alone, he took pen to paper.

_Sherlock,_

_Don’t blame your brother. I didn’t give him a choice. This was one of only two options and he made it clear that the other option wasn’t one. I’m safe and, more importantly, you’re safe. Don’t worry about me, go ahead with your life._

_John_

He reread what he had written, thinking that it was more than inadequate, but not wanting to put anything more meaningful down on paper where anyone could read it. John slipped the letter into the provided envelope and hit the call button. The man returned, took the letter with only a nod and slipped back out of the room. The doctor gave a shuddering sigh and threw himself back onto the bed.

John itched to rip off the electrodes and hurl them across the room, but restrained himself. He was cold, wearing just a hospital gown. His head hurt. John ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to force away his sudden loneliness by sheer force of will. It didn’t work. He felt sorry for himself and, God, how he missed Sherlock. The doctor rolled onto his side and resolutely didn’t let himself think about that or anything else. After what seemed like hours, he finally fell asleep.

The next day was a repeat of the same. Being treated like an inanimate object grated on John’s nerves. At one point, he even snapped, “I’m a bloody human being! Talk to me, not at me.” It didn’t do any good. The doctors and staff around him were keeping their distance deliberately. He supposed with everything that went on here, it was for the best. There was no telling what happened to the majority of their ‘subjects’. That was something that he decided it was best not to think about. That night, he slept fitfully, his head aching once again.

Three more days and nights passed in this way. Boring. Infuriating. Frustrating. Sherlock would have gone mad. John laughed at the thought as he settle onto his bed for what would be his sixth night in the cold, sterile room. As sleep loomed, he knew that something was different. He could feel it, a hunger. There would be a nightmare that night. He tossed and turned, trying to avoid the inevitable, fighting sleep with everything that was in him, but finally, he succumbed.

John woke, screaming, with visions of pale flesh struggling beneath him and Sherlock’s cries ringing in his ears. That day, the doctors and their assistants seemed excited, filled with renewed energy. It was infuriating and John wanted to punch each and every one of them for showing such glee. He felt like he was surrounded by creatures that fed off of dark emotions, glutting themselves at a feast.

Two days later, John woke to hands holding him firmly in place and a pinch at his elbow. He came off the bed fighting, his left fist catching the taller man squarely on the chin. They wrestled him down and waited. John’s vision tunnelled, narrowed down to what was directly in front of him. His head swam and his muscles went weak. They released him and he lay there, unmoving, lost to the images in his mind.

* * *

 It had been four weeks, and John was still unresponsive. Three days of the experimental drug had brought this about. Its administration had been stopped, but there had been no change in John’s condition. The doctors had been forced to report their subject’s status to Mycroft Holmes. It hadn’t been pretty.

The government official stepped into the room and looked at John. The doctor’s eyes were open and staring, glazed and seemingly without life. Mycroft let out a great sigh and sat in the chair next to John’s bed. “This was supposed to help you,” he said, not expecting a reaction. “Sherlock will not be pleased.” The government official’s brow rose. John’s hand had twitched. “Sherlock,” he tried experimentally. Again, there was a slight reaction. Mycroft pressed his lips together into a thin line. No, Sherlock wouldn’t be happy at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Time had ceased to have meaning for John, buried as he was in his own imaginings. He wasn't completely unaware of what went on around him, he simply didn’t care. Why would he want to respond to meaningless questions uttered by nameless individuals when he could spend time with Sherlock? John would rather listen to sharp cries and soft moans.

Hands manoeuvered him this way and that, flexing his limbs, repositioning him to their whim. John staunchly ignored them. Instead, he shifted the pale body that was laid out beneath him in his mind.

Visions crowded in from unblinking eyes. John looked inward, admiring the dark bruise at Sherlock's throat and drinking in his trembling form.

When a cup was pressed to his lips, John almost considered rousing, but his thoughts were too focused on his visions within. As liquid poured into his mouth, he swallowed reflexively. It was enough nutrition to keep him going. He tuned it all out, and, in his mind, coiled his body around Sherlock's.

* * *

The explanation had flowed, clear and simple. The doctors/researchers had identified a portion of John's brain that was overactive during his nightmares and during the times that his obsession drove him. They had developed a drug to help reduce that activity. It had done just the opposite. Sherlock had listened calmly, asking to see the research material and file on John. He had read it, placed it to the side and stood, staring at Mycroft. That's when the metaphorical explosion occurred.

Mycroft’s eyes watered as his lungs cried out for breath. Sherlock had him pinned up against the white wall of the small room in the research facility, his fingers wrapped tightly around his throat. The government official was just able to inhale enough breath to stave off blacking out.

Altogether, things were going better than he had expected.

Sherlock released him, throwing him to the floor. “Not only did you take him, Mycroft, but you let them break him.” The detective turned and kicked the nearest chair, afraid that if he started kicking his brother, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had barely managed to release him. Only the thought of Mummy served to restrain his fury. “Take me to him,” he spat. “I suggest you find religion very quickly, brother dear, and start praying that I can fix him.”

Mycroft stood shakily, his hand going to his throat. He gave a nod as he straightened out his jacket. Without another word, the government official led his brother through hallways, around turns and through heavy, secured doors. He stopped outside one of the doors. It could have been one of many they had passed. A nod at the guard, and the short squat man unlocked the door and opened it. Sherlock started forward, glaring when he felt his brother’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t expect too much, Sherlock,” Mycroft cautioned, his voice rough from where he had been throttled.

The detective shrugged him off and stepped through the door. He didn’t notice it being pulled shut behind him. All that he saw was John, bedraggled and propped up on his bed. Walking over, he ran his hand through the too long hair and whispered, “John.” His eyes glued to the doctor's face, Sherlock noted the slight flaring of his nostrils. Maybe John could hear him, was aware of him. He needed to hold the doctor and engulf him in his presence.

Without further consideration, Sherlock began ripping wires off of the doctor. Alarms would sound somewhere, no doubt, but Mycroft could have them silenced. His brother had to be good for something, after all. The detective climbed onto the bed next to John. Pulling the doctor's head to his shoulder, Sherlock held him. Not even realising that he was doing it, he began to rock them gently.

Sherlock talked. He berated his brother. He criticised the incompetents in the secret facility. He complained about his latest case, Molly, Lestrade, anything he could think of. He talked about the empty flat and how lonely it was.

* * *

Within, John lay atop Sherlock, lazily rubbing his cheek along the detective's chest. He could hear him. He could almost smell him. John wanted to taste him. His lips parted and he pressed them against the pale flesh of the detective's neck. He let his tongue rest against that long column, tasting. There was a hint of sweat that bloomed, salty, against his tongue. John bit down hard enough to leave a bruise, then harder. The taste of salt was replaced by iron. Sherlock cried out his name.

* * *

When John's teeth sank into his shoulder, Sherlock cried out John name in shock. The doctor, thankfully, relaxed his jaw, releasing the detective's shoulder. From what Sherlock understood, that was the most activity John had shown since the ill-fated administration of the experimental medication. He reached up, pulling back to look into the doctor's eyes, hoping to see something there. They were still glazed and unfocused.

The report had said that John's abnormal brain activity had got worse. Sherlock considered. That brain activity caused the doctor to dream about him, to obsess about him. Conclusion: whatever was going on inside John's mind, keeping the doctor from responding, was about him.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before drawing his arm back and slapping John across the face. He had to get his attention somehow, redirect the doctor's introverted obsession outward. "John! Whatever you're imagining in there, it isn't real. I'm here. Right here." He slapped him again, then raised up and shook him. "Don't you want me? I know you do," he growled. "You want to tear me apart." Just as he raised his arm to issue another blow, John's blue eyes shifted, then struggled into focus.

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Welcome back, John."

Blinking, the doctor looked at him. This Sherlock was real, not a product of his imagination. He was warm and beautiful. John's eyes fell on the fresh wound at the detective's neck and his tongue darted out. He tasted the blood on his lips and gave a little shiver of appreciation. Oh, how he wanted to break Sherlock and play with him. Maybe even put him back together again. John tried to reach for him, but he felt weak.

Sherlock grabbed John's hands between his own and kissed them. Then he got up and, wrapping a sheet around the doctor, he lifted him into his arms. Sherlock carried John to the door and kicked it. When his brother opened it, the detective said simply, "We're going home."


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft's eyes were drawn to the bloody bite just barely visible at his brother's shoulder. So Sleeping Beauty had awakened. "That may not be the wisest course of action, Sherlock. Though he obviously responded to you on some fashion, that's no indication of his mental state. John could slip away again or become aggressive."

The detective tried to shoulder his way past Mycroft, but his brother wouldn't move. Since his arms were full of John, he couldn't even punch him. "Get out of the way," he growled menacingly.

Sherlock’s anger infiltrated the doctor’s mind, distracting him from his appreciation of his friend’s proximity. If the detective was angry, there was likely to be danger. If there was danger, John was supposed to be his protection. He rolled his head away from Sherlock’s chest to assess the danger, his eyes landing on Mycroft. That explained the detective’s anger, then, and it was something John could ignore. He let his head rest against Sherlock’s chest again, listening with distracted indifference.

"He won't be able to fully care for himself for some time, despite the advanced methods used to minimise muscular atrophy. Consider that, baby brother. He's wearing a diaper for goodness sake!" Mycroft could see he wasn't making an impression. "At least put him down. I'll have his clothing fetched."

"If I put him down, I'll finish what I started earlier. This is the last time I'll say it. Move."

Something in that last exchange had caught John’s attention and he felt a faint embarrassment and indignation. For the first time, he felt the need to truly interact with the world around him. He fisted his hand in Sherlock’s shirt and insisted, “Clothes.”

The detective looked down at the man in his arms and saw firm determination in John’s blue eyes. “We can get you clothes at home.”

Shaking his head, John repeated his demand, “Clothes. Now.”

Sherlock sighed. Keeping his gaze on John, he addressed Mycroft. “Fine. Have his clothes brought, but after that, we are going home.”

His brother gave the barest dip of his head in acknowledgement, then left to see that it was done.

When the detective placed John carefully back on the bed, the doctor managed to sit up and look around him. He didn't remember the room. In fact, he didn't remember much after arriving at Mycroft's secure facility. Stringing multiple words together had seemed unimportant before now, but John had questions, so he forced himself to do it. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"My idiot of a brother called me here," Sherlock spat, his voice full of venom. "Why he waited so long, I have no idea."

John pondered those words. "Just how long have I been here?" He lifted his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Five weeks."

That brought the doctor's head up sharply. If he had lost that much time... Well, no wonder Sherlock was in such a state. John stood gingerly, surprised at how easily he managed it.

The detective hovered, there was no other word for it, his concern obvious. "John, be careful. You've been confined to the bed for four weeks, your muscles will be weak." Here, Sherlock's expression went bitter. "Mycroft claims his people mitigated the muscular atrophy with advanced techniques, but I don't know how successful they were."

There was a knock at the door and a young woman poked her head tentatively around it. "I've brought Doctor Watson's clothes, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock walked over and snatched them, the look on his face so fierce that the woman scampered away. He slammed the door, looking for a lock, but not finding one.

John was already struggling with the ties of his hospital gown, having little success. Sherlock brushed the doctor's hands away and made short work of the ties. The gown fell away, and John found himself wearing nothing but an adult diaper. "Bloody hell. Sherlock, turn around."

The detective rolled his eyes, but complied with the doctor's request. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Bodily functions are a fact of life."

"Yeah, well, it's my body so... Right." John got the offending item off, then teetered as he tried to pull on his pants. "Fuck!"

"Oh, for goodness sake." Sherlock whirled around and steadied him. "Let me help."

Together, they managed to get John dressed. All that was left was the item on the bed - the collar. John looked at it, then closed his eyes. Even now, he felt a low humming need to possess his friend. He swallowed hard, then told Sherlock, "Put it on for me." It wasn't until he felt it close around his neck that he opened his eyes.

Sherlock’s hands were resting on the doctor's shoulders and the look he wore was oddly gentle.

John frowned. "Don't look at me like that.  I'm fine."

"You can't do this to me again," the detective growled as he pulled John into a fierce hug. "What if you hadn't heard me? What if you were still lost inside your head?"

"Well, I'm not." The doctor returned the hug, breathing Sherlock’s scent in deeply. It was almost intoxicating.  "Let's go home." He brought his hand up to the bite-mark. “And we’ll need to see to that.”


	11. Chapter 11

John objected vocally both times Sherlock picked him up and carried him - he would have preferred a wheelchair to the indignity. He was still protesting as he was placed in the back of the waiting car. "I can walk!"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed then closed the car door. He walked around to the other side and slid in, then scooted across the leather seat until he was sitting right up against John, their thighs touching. The doctor pressed himself to the door, trying to create a bit of space between them. 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as he closed the miniscule distance between them. 

John tilted his head, trying to realign his vertebrae and gave a shrug. He kept his gaze trained out the window. "Would you back off please? Give me some space." He heard Sherlock huff behind him. "Look, I appreciate that you missed me, but... There are things..." He covered his eyes with a shaky hand. Oh, yes, there were things he wanted to do to Sherlock, very bad things.

"Of course you still want to hurt me. Obvious." The detective shifted in his seat, crossing his legs as he rolled his eyes. "I don't see why that should matter."

A flush of anger crept up the doctor's neck. "Jesus!" John turned to look at Sherlock in disbelief. "Do you even hear yourself, how wrong that is?" The doctor reached to open the door, intent on escaping, the fact the car was already moving be damned.

Sherlock closed his hand on John's wrist, his grip hard enough to bruise. "We've been through this. You're mine. No running away."

The doctor looked down to where Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his wrist. His face twisted into a mask of fear and anger, all of it directed at himself. "Let. Go."

"By all means, after you."

Slowly, almost painfully, the doctor relaxed his fingers, releasing his grip on the door handle. The detective, in turn, let John's wrist go. He let his head drop back against the seat and closed his eyes, his anger replaced by a sudden sadness. "It's not just about hurting you." The doctor's tired words were answered with a considering hum, letting him know he was being observed.

"It's more about the control, then and... Oh!" Sherlock gripped John's thigh in a tight grip, his eyes lighting up in the excitement of his latest deduction. "We'd established that you love me, and love can exist external to physical attraction, but that's not the case here, is it? You're genuinely attracted to me."

John smiled a weary smile. "Oh, go, you. We've been having sex, albeit not exactly normal. So... stunning deduction." He opened his eyes and snuck a peak at the detective. Sherlock had jumped headlong into an enormous sulk. At least some things never changed.

Oddly, giggles bubbled up in John's chest and, for a brief moment, every worry and fear he had fell away. "You really just figured that out. I would have thought you'd have done that at Angelo's." He made a fist as he tried to regain control of himself. "A person would have to be blind not to be interested in you."

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. "There's interest and then there's attraction." He was looking away from John.

"And they're the same thing, you git." It was amazing that the object of his obsession was so completely oblivious. "You really don't get it." He shook his head in renewed disbelief. "I want you all the time, in every way - emotionally, physically. Even my unhealthy obsession with you is seated in my desire."

Biting his lip, Sherlock pondered aloud, "We could try having sex sometime... when you're just... you. See if that eases the compulsions you have." He noted John's disbelieving look and turned defensive. "It could work."

"And when that doesn't work and I do something not good? No." John could picture that all too well, Sherlock's broken, unbreathing body beneath him as he came back to himself in a living nightmare. Thankfully, the car pulled up outside 221 at just that moment, offering him a distraction from his own thoughts.

John threw open the door and stepped out, his legs shaking beneath him. He needed time alone to think. If he could just have a moment to steady himself, then he would enter the flat, climb the stairs to his room and lock himself safely away.

"God dammit, Sherlock," he cried out as the detective swept him off his feet for what seemed to be the thousandth time that day. "I told you, I can walk!" The tattered shreds of John's dignity fell away bit by bit as each passer-by looked on. "If I kill you now, at least it'll be justified," he hissed.

Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Then you'd inevitably miss me. You'd never find someone as extraordinary as I am to obsess about." He stomped his way up the stairs, carrying John, very thankful that Mrs. Hudson was out. Though, he reflected, she had been surprisingly accepting of the strange goings on of her upstairs tenants. Backing through the door to the living room, he turned and lowered John to the sofa. "Perhaps a tattoo," he commented, apropos of nothing.

"A tattoo… what?" That had been fairly random. John sat up and shot Sherlock a questioning look.

"Do keep up. Yes a tattoo, where you carved your initials, a permanent mark of your possession."

Gaping, John asked, "Where do you come up with these things?"

"Well..." The detective threw himself down in his chair. "Something has to be done. Your subconscious mind needs to be satisfied, otherwise it will keep driving you to act."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think it works that way."

"Then tell me how it does work," Sherlock demanded sarcastically. "I'd be quite happy to be enlightened."

Pushing to his feet, John took a few shaky steps towards the stairway, then stopped. "I thought you understood. I take you apart, I enjoy a few days free of twisted thoughts, then I dream. When it gets to be too much, it starts all over again."

"It shouldn't have to be that way!" Sherlock yelled.

John turned back to face the detective. "But it is. Some things can't be changed. You need to accept that."

"You know I can't," Sherlock said quietly.

Shoulders slumping, the doctor nodded. "Yeah, I know."


	12. Chapter 12

John took a step towards the door, determined not to let Sherlock see how his legs, muscles strained from disuse, were trembling. He couldn’t take any more of this conversation.

“This things you want, John, aren’t all that unusual.” The detective noted John’s abruptly stiffened posture and ploughed on, “Edgeplay, bloodplay, orgasm control, orgasm denial, forced orgasm, sexual sadism and dominance. Your desire to mark me is far more common than you might think. It’s merely a matter of degree.”

“There was a moment when I imagined cutting you open. Is that what you mean by ‘a matter of degree’? Because if it is, you’re madder than a hatter.”

Sherlock didn’t answer the question, but posed one of his own. “Why didn’t you do it?”

“Mycroft would have…”

“No,” the detective shook his head emphatically. “That’s what you tell yourself, but what is the real reason?”

John slowly turned back around, a look of understanding coming over his face. “Because, no sooner had I thought it, then I felt sick.” He reached out a tentative hand. “I couldn’t bear the idea of hurting you like that.”

“Very good, John.” Sherlock beamed. “Now, is there any reason why that should change in the future?”

With a barked laugh, the doctor responded. “Only if you keep insisting on carrying me about like a child.”

“There is that,” Sherlock agreed, a quirky smile on his face.

John’s bad leg finally gave out and he buckled, nearly falling to the floor before the detective could catch him.

“You need rest.”

Despite his earlier and more recent protests, John didn’t complain when he found himself being scooped up in Sherlock’s arms. Perhaps it was because they were safe behind the walls of Baker Street and there were no judging eyes, pitying him for his weakness. The doctor rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, eliciting a little hiss of pain. The corners of John’s mouth curved down into a frown as he remembered the bite mark he had placed there. “Put me down,” he demanded and started twisting in the detective’s arms.

“As soon as I get you to bed.”

“No, now. I need my kit. You, of all people know how dangerous human bites can be.”

Sherlock didn’t pause, but kept going to his bedroom where he deposited John on the bed. “Stay. I’ll get your kit.”

The doctor fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking. When Sherlock reappeared, he took the kit that was proffered. Opening it up, he pulled out the saline wash. “Sit.” He patted the bed expectantly and waited for the detective to comply. He cleaned the wound, flushing it out thoroughly, satisfying himself that it wasn’t as bad as he had thought – it wouldn’t require stitches. He applied an antibiotic ointment to the site, observing as he worked, “Thankfully you’re up to date on your Tetanus.” John sighed, “But you will need a prescription antibiotic.”

Sherlock smirked. “Luckily, my flatmate always keeps one on hand.”

Silence fell between them as they stared at one another. Sherlock finally broke it, “Will you think about what I said earlier?”

John let himself fall over backwards on the bed, exhausted and really not wanting to talk anymore. Still… “You missed something in what you described before. Healthy BDSM relationships are based on mutual consent.”

The detective looked highly offended. “I’ve given you my consent, explicitly.”

“Not the first time, you didn't.”

With a gesture of the hand, Sherlock waved that off. “If I had known what you needed, I would have given it to you, but that’s irrelevant. You have it now.”

“Oh, that’s just fine, then,” John replied sarcastically. “And what about pleasure? Generally, that’s a goal for all participants.” John dry washed his face. “Our relationship, if you can call it that, has been singularly one sided.”

Sherlock looked away, his face flushing. “It wasn’t entirely unpleasurable. There are certain aspects that I rather enjoyed.”

The doctor gave a brittle laugh. “I think I would have noticed.”

“Would you have?” Sherlock answered himself, “No, because you didn’t. Perhaps that first occasion was a bit much. I wouldn’t have  _chosen_  to have my first orgasm in the presence of another person in such a fashion nor would I have asked for it to be taken to such an extreme, but I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that it was… good?” His nose wrinkled as he thought. “And your fingers were nice.” He pondered the overwhelming stimulation that his prostate had been subjected to. “I wasn’t sure, at first, but once I had got past the pain, I found I rather enjoyed your cock.”

“Jesus…” John rolled away, hiding his face and burgeoning erection as his arousal threatened to get the best of him. “But I did hurt you.”

“Again, you gravitate to the irrelevant.” Sherlock lay down beside the doctor, wrapping an arm around him and resting his head on John’s back. “It’s a fair exchange, I think. A little pain and discomfort on my part and I get to keep you with me.” He kissed the nape of John’s neck. ”Besides, I’m not afraid of pain.”

The doctor moaned as he reached down and cupped his own bulging cock through his jeans. “I really think you should go away, now.”

Sherlock kissed John’s neck again and again, letting his kisses grow sloppy and wet. “And  _I_  really think you should take your clothes off." At the mute shake of the doctor’s head, Sherlock rolled him over and set to work getting him undressed.

John knew he should be resisting... or protesting, at the very least... but then his chest was exposed and being sensually kissed by Sherlock. It felt different from anything he had experienced before with the detective. It was a surrender of control, one that he was surprised to find he liked. Without realising he was doing it, he bucked his hips up, seeking contact.

Sherlock provided. He gripped John through his jeans, giving his erection a squeeze, then he unfastened the doctor’s fly. In just a few more moments, he had John’s hard cock in his hand, able to properly examine it for the first time. He bit his lip, wondering why John had never fucked his mouth – that seemed like something he would have wanted to do. Enough thinking, he decided and wrapped his mouth around John’s cock. The doctor swore and Sherlock smiled, for once finding himself in control. It was a heady feeling.


	13. Chapter 13

John’s eyes fell shut and pleasure coursed through him. He brought his hands down to grip Sherlock’s hair, but the detective pulled off of him and wrapped his hands around the doctor’s wrists.

“I’m in control, now, John.” Sherlock shimmied up the doctor’s body, lifting John’s arms over his head and pressing them down into the mattress. John looked up at him through lust darkened eyes and that fuelled Sherlock’s own desires even more. “Can you keep your arms here where I put them, or do you need me to tie you down?”

Even now, John could feel his need to control, to dominate, trying to push forward, but he wanted to surrender as well. “I can’t. I still want to take you apart. I…”

Sherlock silenced him by pressing a bruising kiss to John’s lips. This kiss wasn’t slow and sensual, it was insistent. The detective thrust his tongue into John’s mouth and explored every crevice, mapping out the contours of the doctor’s mouth. The need for oxygen became paramount and Sherlock broke the kiss, looking down at a flushed and panting John. “I am going to release you and you  _will_  move to the centre of the bed so I can restrain you. Do you understand?”

Taking a shuddering breath, the doctor nodded. Sherlock slowly, ever so slowly, released his grip on John’s wrists. When nothing happened, he shifted to the side so that the doctor could manoeuvre himself to the centre of the bed. Sherlock fished in the bedside table and came up with a pair of Lestrade’s handcuffs. He climbed back on the bed and over John’s body, hovering there for a few moments.

Without taking his eyes off Sherlock’s, John lifted his hands up towards the headboard and grasped it tightly so that his knuckles went white. “Do it,” he ordered. The doctor wasn’t at all certain that he could hold back much longer. He heaved a sigh of relief when the cuffs closed over his wrists, taking his need for control away. Sherlock could do anything to him, anything at all. He deserved whatever happened. If the detective chose to take his revenge, it would be all the better.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, having deduced John’s latest thoughts. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not what this is about. This is about me showing you we can have this, you and me. I don’t care about the rest of it. That’s something different that doesn’t belong here. Now.” He looked at John hungrily. “It’s time for me to learn how to take you apart.”

Sherlock unbuttoned the red shirt that John had worn home from Mycroft’s facility and bared John’s chest. Dipping his head down, he ran his tongue over John’s left nipple. He felt it harden under his ministrations and pulled back to observe that it had formed a dark peak. It was fascinating and he repeated his actions on John’s other nipple. 

The doctor’s eyes had closed and he felt himself surrendering to sensation. It was like his thought processes had been shorted out and all he could do was feel.

Backing down John’s body, the detective tapped his hip. John lifted his arse as best he could and gave a shudder as his jeans and pants were stripped from him, taking his shoes and socks with them. Sherlock rested his hands lightly on the doctor’s ankles for a moment, then stroked up his legs as he moved back up along John’s body. He paused at the doctor’s hips for a moment, then moved even higher. He brought his hand up to run lightly over the scar at John’s right shoulder.

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Does it hurt?”

It took a moment for his words to make it through the haze of sensation and surrender. When it did, John breathed out a raspy reply, “No. Just feels strange.”

Leaning down, Sherlock placed a kiss over the scar. He let his tongue dart out and explored the scar much as he had the inside of John’s mouth. Without thinking, he shifted his body and his knee came to rest between the doctor’s thighs, pressed up against his bollocks. John moaned and bent his free leg at the knee, resting it against Sherlock’s side.

“Please, Sherlock,” John begged, not quite certain what he was asking for.

“Easy, John. Trust me.” Sherlock rolled to the side and reached back into the bedside table. He came back with a bottle of lube. The doctor’s eyes went wide and his body tensed. “You do trust me, don’t you, John?” He smiled at the immediate nod he received.

Sherlock took his time, pouring lube into his hand and letting it warm. “I don’t have any practical experience on the giving end, but as for receiving… I know that I need to take my time and prepare you properly, because I don’t intend to hurt you.”

The doctor turned his head to the side, remembering how he had forced his way into Sherlock virtually unprepared. Suddenly his arousal waned, overshadowed by his sense of guilt.

“No.” Sherlock cupped John’s face with his lube-free hand. “Don’t. Don’t think about that right now. Just think about this.” The detective had reached between them and grasped John’s cock, giving it a firm stroke.

John let out a moan and gave a shudder. “I don’t…” He couldn’t finish his thought as Sherlock’s lips were sealed over his once again. He didn’t even try. Sherlock’s fingers trailed down from his cock, across his perineum, and finally found his hole where they circled gently before the detective pressed in with only the tip of one finger. “Oh, oh, God,” John moaned as he pressed his head back into the pillow, hard.

Sherlock took his time, working John open one finger at a time. When the doctor was finally loose and ready, he knelt between his knees and lined himself up with John’s entrance. With more restraint than he thought he possessed, Sherlock pushed himself into the doctor ever so slowly. John was a panting, sweating mess beneath him and the doctor had never looked so beautiful. Sherlock lifted John’s legs, one at a time, and draped them over his shoulder then he began to move, slowly at first, then with increased speed.

John felt like he had been taken apart and rebuilt. His wants and desires had imploded, forming a black hole of sorts within his mind. Now they were exploding in a big bang, new constellations of need forming within his mind. “Sherlock, Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock,” were the only words he could manage.

The detective could feel himself nearing the brink of orgasm already, not having done this before, he wasn’t certain that he had found John’s prostate, but thought he had. The doctor shivered and called out his name on each of Sherlock’s thrusts. The detective let one of John’s legs drop so he could wrap his fingers around the doctor’s cock. As soon as he did, John let out a scream and came, clenching around Sherlock’s cock. The detective followed him over the precipice, John’s name on his lips. They shuddered through their orgasms together. It was unlike anything physical that had happened between them before this. Sherlock pulled out of John carefully then collapsed at John’s side.

Sometime later, John let out a sigh and tried to shift his shoulder a bit to ease the growing ache he felt there.

“Oh, sorry.” Sherlock fetched the keys and unlocked the cuffs, then he lay back down beside the doctor and lay his arm across him, uncaring of the cooling semen that covered John’s stomach. “Alright?”

John gave a little laugh. “That was incredible. I actually forgot everything for a bit.” He frowned. “But you have to know that what just happened isn’t a cure.”

“Do you want to hurt me right now?”

“No.”

“Do you think you’ll want to hurt me in the next, say, 48 hours?”

The doctor thought for a bit. He didn’t feel the tell-tale pressure building inside of himself. “No.”

“Good. Then shut up. I want to sleep now.” Sherlock snuggled up against the doctor, grumbling when his cheek pressed against the rough collar at John's neck. “We’ll talk about it all tomorrow.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, much to my surprise. I'm telling this fic goodnight.

The next morning, John woke to Sherlock taking off his collar. The doctor's hand flew up trying to keep it in place around his neck. He needed to wear the collar. Sherlock needed him to. The incapacitating shock the collar could give John was all the insurance they had if he lost control and attacked his friend.

"Sherlock, no!" John's protest was loud and edged with alarm.

The detective pulled the collar away and tossed it over his shoulder where it fell on the floor. "Don't you see? It's not needed anymore. We've found the solution to the puzzle. All we have to do is keep you physically and mentally sated."

John scoffed. "It it were that easy, don't you think I would have wanked my subconscious into submission. It's not that simple." He scrabbled up on his knees, intending to retrieve the collar and put it back on.

Wrapping his arms around the doctor, Sherlock's stopped him. "You weren't listening to me, John. You know how I hate repeating myself. We have to keep you mentally sated as well."

The doctor relaxed in Sherlock's arms. "What do you mean?"

"When an idea first pops into your head, you'll have to tell me. We'll find a way to satisfy the need it represents." Sherlock sounded like it was so simple that John almost believed it was possible. "I've been thinking and conducting research, you see. For your simple desires, we can take care of them here. You can fuck me, for example. There are a number of sexual toys that you could use to your advantage. For more... complicated desires, there are clubs. If you wanted to cut me, for example, like you did before, it could be done in a public play area. You wouldn't be able to hurt me significantly with other people watching. You wouldn't even try. It's a simple solution."

John turned around in Sherlock's arms. "You don't like pain."

"True." The detective ran a hand soothingly along John's arm. "But we've established that your desires are more about control than inflicting pain." His brow furrowed. "I see now that cutting was a poor example. Perhaps this would be a better one: bondage. You could tie me up in public and 'have your way with me'. I believe that's how it's said. Perhaps we can even bring these impulses of yours out into the light of day where you have complete control over them."

John was biting his lip. Even now, when he wasn't feeling the strange compulsions, the idea of tying Sherlock up and using him was extremely arousing.

"You like that idea," Sherlock observed. "Very much, in fact."

Looking down at the mattress, John blushed. "Yes. Ahem," he cleared his throat. "I still don't understand why you're willing to do this."

"Love," came Sherlock's simple reply. "As I already told you, if you recall."

John barked a laugh and looked up at him. "Alright. We'll try this, but the room upstairs stays."

"Agreed."

"Well, then." The doctor climbed out of bed. "I'm far overdue for a shower, I think. I'll just go take care of that."

Sherlock watched him go, pleased. John had been far easier to convince than he had expected. Good.

* * *

Two days passed rather quietly. Sherlock went out on a case. Since John was no longer wearing the collar, the detective had dragged him along with him. The case was a 5 on Sherlock's scale, so it wasn't a complete waste of time and having the doctor with him again had made the excursion worth the effort.

As the case wrapped up, however, the detective noticed slight changes in John's behaviour. The doctor hovered near him, glaring when people neared Sherlock's space. It was primal, possessive. The detective knew they needed to talk, but he couldn't orchestrate an opportunity. Instead, he kept his eyes on John as much as possible and made excuses to touch him, trying to reassure him.

Finally, they were able to leave, having provided Lestrade with all of the information he needed to close the case. John started walking, not joining Sherlock who had been about to hail a cab. The detective followed him, grabbing the doctor by the hand to stop him when he had caught up.

"I thought you were okay," Sherlock said, his face screwed up in puzzlement. "You haven't said anything about dreams."

"That's because I haven't been having any." John looked at the ground. He couldn't look at Sherlock. "It's just... They act like they own you, Greg, all of them. You're _their_ consulting detective." He shook his head. "It's stupid, I know, but I don't like it."

"Ah." Sherlock tilted his head, looking at John. "So you want to reclaim me."

The doctor made a strange, half-choking sound.

"Alright." Sherlock nodded as if something had been decided. "When we get home, you can fuck me." He took John's hand intending to pull him along towards the kerb and hailed a cab. The doctor didn't move. "Problem?" Sherlock asked, looking back at him.

"I love you," John blurted out. "I really do, as fucked up as it is. I mean... You're going to do that for me."

Sherlock smiled at him. "If I'm lucky, I'll even get to enjoy it."

"Yeah... That. I like that idea," the doctor said, at last letting himself be pulled along in Sherlock's wake.

* * *

Sherlock's legs were spread wide and John had three fingers deep inside of him. He curled them experimentally and Sherlock gasped as he jolted. It was a lovely, surprised sound and it made John's cock twitch.

"Do that again," the detective demanded.

"Why?" John wanted to hear it, wanted that bit of control.

"Because it felt good."

The doctor stopped moving his fingers and used his other hand to slap Sherlock's thigh.  
The detective lifted his head and looked at John, biting his lip. "Because I'm yours and you want to do it to me."

"Mm," John agreed. He started moving his fingers inside the other man again, teasing over that special bundle of nerves repeatedly. Sherlock was so responsive, throwing his head back, moaning, shivering. John had missed observing these things during their previous interactions having been driven by obsessive need. He found he fully appreciated them now. Impulsively, he bent forward and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth.

"Oh, fuck, John." Sherlock's hands fisted in the bedclothes as he was swallowed down by the doctor. "John, John, I thought... You were... Oh, Christ!" He broke off, rendered completely incoherent by the doctor's actions.

Just as he was about to come, John pulled away, squeezing the base of Sherlock's cock to stop him. The doctor lifted Sherlock's legs and threw them over his shoulders as he moved into position. Lining himself up with the detective's entrance, John pushed forward, sliding into the tight warmth of Sherlock. The doctor's thoughts halted for a moment as he paused to enjoy the sensation, then he began to move.

This was different than before. Sherlock was enjoying it, actively participating and calling out John's name. "John, John, John."

The doctor responded with a litany of his own, "Mine, mine, mine. You are fucking mine, Sherlock Holmes."

"John, yes, yours." Sherlock reached between them and tugged on his own cock. It only took a few strokes before he was coming, screaming John's name and clenching hard around him.

The doctor cried out, finding his own release in Sherlock's. His body juddered and quaked as his orgasm swept through him - them.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He dropped the detective's legs and bent forward, kissing him. "Mine," he growled one last time, before collapsing on Sherlock in a post coital haze. "Thank you. Love you. You're incredible."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him. "Hm, no, thank _you_."

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com)


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